Manhattan Project
by abercrombieprep
Summary: Sometimes freedom comes at a cost


Manhattan Project

Abercrombieprep

He was in shock. I knew he was. It was written all over his face when I entered the room, waving my gun around. I could feel the astonishment radiating off him; he wasn't prepared. He didn't think it was going to end like this. But I did. All the nights I spent alone and crying were not in vain. We had succeeded. We had killed our monster. We were free.

I think the realization off the impact of my actions hit when the building was stormed by almost a thousand agents. Every person, no matter what implications… no matter if they were civilian, were taken into custody. And then he knew, he knew it was all over. There would be no more missions, no more ancient artifacts and priceless jewels. He was finished. His organization was finished. We were free.

I knew of course, that the time was almost up weeks before. I remembered the secret rendezvous. The look on his face when he told me there were only a few more weeks and we could be seen in public. Our lives would no longer be masked by the rank stench of musty corners in abandoned buildings. Our faces no longer masked by the darkness that seemed to consume everything. We would be able to smile and laugh, joke and flirt, whenever we pleased. If we wanted to fly to Monaco, we could. If we wanted to take a Caribbean cruise, we could. If we wanted to do noting except sit on the couch and watch football for the rest of our lives, we could. We were free.

Even more so, I knew this was our chance. For six years our relationship had been locked away, tucked so deep inside of us, we sometimes forgot it was there. But in the recent weeks it had began to blossom, coming in close contact with our skin. It was threatening to poke through, to expose itself. And it could. We were free.

I didn't know where he was, so I rode the elevator up and down, shouting his name down the hallway. Each masked man turned and smiled, shaking their heads and giving me another floor to try. They knew, like anyone would, how excited we were. It was common knowledge that we were the couple standing on the edge of the boundary, testing how much protocol we could break without being broken ourselves. We had been staring at the face of the monster for so long, and now it was gone. There was nothing blocking the road now. We were free.

And then I saw him; I knew it was he. There was no doubt in my mind. I remembered when I was little; my friend could pick out a yellow M&M out of all the rest with a blindfold on. They tasted different she would say. I didn't know how he tasted, although I was sure I was about to find out, but he stuck out. Our bodies were attracted, like magnets. And sure enough when I pulled off the ski mask, there he was. His damp, sweaty blonde hair sticking up where the mask had pulled them up. And then the attraction was too great, and like any magnet, we were pulled together, our lips touching, the sensations rushing. It was like swimming with a raincoat on, I was pulled deeper and deeper in. I couldn't feel anything, couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything. We were free.

Oxygen. It's what we all need, and eventually we, starving for life itself, were pulled apart. He smiled at me, and put his finger on my lips. There was acid there. They burned. I could feel the sensation for hours. He congratulated me. A job well done. We smiled, knowing the implications of a job well done. We were free.

And then he grabbed my hand, more acid burning, and dragged me to the elevator. It was the longest elevator ride in my life. Our lips could not break apart, the acid eating away, devouring my lips, but still I pressed on. When we finally broke apart, gasping as if we were drowning, drowning in our love, I knew this was what I wanted for the rest of my life. Rushing by the officers, we ran to his SUV, sprinting before the attraction overcame us, and once again our lips met again. He smiled at me, and I knew where we were going. Our promise to each other. We were free.

Hockey was never my sport. I'd rather watch ballet, a graceful art, than watch men beat each other up over a piece of rubber. Even if I had tried, I couldn't have watched the game intently for his sake. His arm draped over my shoulders, his hand molding around mine. Burning. Loving. He smiled every time I asked a question, and answer it with the utmost authority. Colours swirled by on the ice, sweat mixing with tears. But I could not see it. For I saw his hand, his arm. They were touching me, finally. We were free.

He bought me a rose on the way to dinner after the game. It was red. Two reds swirled together. Dark, beautiful. He told me it represented our blood, swirled together, mixed into one. A beautiful thing. He took me to a tiny Italian restaurant, the food delicious, the music delicious. He marveled at my love for food, and told me he'd take me to all the fine Italian restaurants in Italy one day. And I believed him. We were free. 

No longer was I scared, he protected me now. He was always there for me, and now he was even closer. No longer did I call at night, upset or distressed. Now I touched his shoulder, the one next to me in bed. We were meant to be together, he and I. We were free.

Sometimes we'd laugh about it. We weren't ordinary. We had led extraordinary lives. But we gave it up, he and I. We wanted to live among those who were ordinary. Who weren't fighting for their lives. Who never felt the guilt or the grief, never heard the lies or saw the tears. And so we did, he and I. We led ordinary lives. No longer did we meet in a musty building, we met on the bright patio of our house. We were free.

But he knew, he knew that one day the guilt would over run me. Sometimes his face haunted me, the shock and dismay so clearly etched. He knew I would be upset, as any person would. But he never knew how I would react. And now I hold the gun to my head, he is at work. He'll come home and see me, lying next to my note. And forever on this day, he will remember what we had done. He will remember the look on Vaughn's face when we took down the CIA. We were free.

We were free, but now I'm not. I'll feel the guilt; I'll feel the tears. And that's just something I can't live with. So I wrote the note, I told him I loved him. I told him it wasn't his fault. He had never done anything wrong. Dear Sark, it said. I still called him that. I love you, but I can't take it. It wasn't your fault. Love Sydney. He'd know what it meant. And then I pulled the trigger. And I was finally free.   

The End 


End file.
